For the next few days, the house echoed with sounds no one dared to name. Not words anyone would repeat in daylight. Not rhythms anyone would admit to counting. Behind a door that refused to stay discreet, something loud, relentless, and unmistakably mutual was happening.

Servants learned quickly to reroute. Slaves paused mid‑errand, then pretended they had forgotten something important elsewhere. Even the walls seemed to brace themselves.

The east wing door took the worst of it. It rattled. It shuddered. At one point it looked as if it might give up entirely, hinges on protesting like witnesses who wanted no part of the testimony.

“Is it supposed to do that?” someone whispered.

Another voice, dry as dust: “Only if they’re tryin’ to break the house in half.”

A muffled cry rose from behind the door, sharp enough to stop conversation cold.

“Saints above,” Ayoka’s voice burst out, loud and unguarded. “Do not you dare slow yourself now.”

Viktor answered low and steady, every word carrying through the wood. “Then hold still. You asked for this.”

Several heads snapped toward the door.

Ayoka did not laugh. She moaned, loud and unguarded, the sound tearing straight through the hallway. “That is not fair,” she gasped. “How is a body meant to endure such a thing?”

Viktor’s reply came calm and maddeningly sure. “I warned you,” he said. “Large. Disciplined.”

Someone in the hallway hissed under their breath, scandalized and impressed all at once. “This woman,” they muttered. “Lord preserve us.”

Viktor said something quieter then, calm enough to be dangerous. “Tell me again what you want.”

The response came without hesitation. “Harder,” Ayoka said, clear as a bell. “Do not you stop.”

The door thudded once, sharp and final, as if to underline the point.

The hallway went dead silent. Whatever was being said in there now was not meant for witnesses. This was information no one needed.

Celia, clutching a tray, stared at the door in open disbelief. “Sweet saints,” she muttered. “Ain’t no way that man is built like that.”

Thomas, passing by with a crate, squinted at the trembling wood. “That door’s fightin’ for its life,” he said. “Someone should check on it.”

“No one,” another servant replied immediately, “is checkin’ on anything in there.”

The commentary continued in low murmurs. Shock gave way to awe. Awe gave way to jokes made too quietly to be safe.

A young maid crossed herself twice and whispered, “That poor bed.”

An older man leaned against the wall, shaking his head. “I worked here thirty years,” he said. “Never heard a room sound like it was bein’ punished back.”

Someone further down the hall muttered, “She is not cryin’.”

“No,” another replied softly. “She is very much not.”

A pair of slaves passing with laundry slowed, then stopped outright. One glanced at the other. “We should go,” he said.

“Yes,” came the answer, eyes wide. “But also… I am not movin’ yet.”

Every so often the door thudded again, harder this time, as if punctuating the gossip.

That was when Sabine arrived.

She took in the scene at a glance. The cluster of listeners. The abused door. The expressions ranging from scandalized to impressed.

“All right,” she said briskly. “That’s enough of that.”

With a flick of her wrist, fine webbing spread across the doorframe, sealing cracks, swallowing sound, reinforcing wood that had clearly seen too much. The noise dropped to nothing. Blessed silence.

Sabine dusted her hands. “Some things,” she added coolly, “do not need an audience.”

The hall cleared in seconds.

Behind the webbed door, whatever was happening continued, unheard and uninterrupted. The house, at last, could pretend it had its dignity back.